


Coup de Foudre

by DamnDanton



Category: French Revolution RPF
Genre: I'll update these later, Lots of awkward flirting, Modern AU, Multi, i intend for this to be vv long, lets see how that goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DamnDanton/pseuds/DamnDanton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a term for this sort of feeling, at term he’d always liked, in abstraction, of course. Coup de foudre. That bolt of lightning you feel when you meet eyes with someone in the street, or across a bar. Love at first sight, if you will. That feeling of shock you got when divine providence or luck or a change in the wind pushed you into the path of that one person who would be the only one for however long eternity was. Well, they called it divine providence. Maximilien Robespierre called it a job advertisement and one Camille Desmoulins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Strike

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is the first frev fic I've posted on here, just messing around with an AU I quite liked and I absolutely love these dorks, please let me know what you thought!!  
> it'll get updated at some point??? maybe?????  
> idk what else to say apart from kudos to anyone who gets the reference in Antoine's CV

Maximilien Robespierre wasn’t the sort of person who usually raved at higher powers, or at least when the trains weren’t late.

But, then again, Louis-Antoine de Saint-Just hadn’t exactly been the sort of person he’d expected to be sitting in his office with a coffee and beautiful dark eyes.

Maximilien now found himself frozen in the doorway, abject horror pale on his face, trying to pinpoint exactly how he’d allowed this to happen, or whether he’d allowed this to happen and if it had just been the cruelty of Fate, the evil game the gods had been playing with him for the past thirty-six years. Camille. It was all Camille’s fault. Camille would be easier to blame than a Supreme Being. And much easier to confront as his office was only just down the corridor. He stared in shock at the young man with the eyes standing in his office with the coffee, wondering how on earth he’d gotten himself into this situation. 

Ah yes, he remembered now. 

The sun had been out, weak and cold between the russet leaves of the half-bare trees, and the park was full of similar-minded people trying in vain to balance a coffee, a phone and a dog without dropping or losing any of them. There’d been a few couples too, and, depending on their ages (or not, as demonstrated by an elderly couple who had been taking turns pushing each other on the swings), kicking through the leaves, or sitting on benches, or just strolling hand in hand. If you’d looked close enough you could’ve caught the shy glances between the newer couples, the fond smiles of the older ones, and the tired, fed-up expressions of the couples who were somewhere in between these two states of happiness, burdened down with pushchairs or screaming toddlers or, in one case, a particularly ill-tempered Chihuahua who was refusing to walk. These pairs had cut parallel lines through the fallen leaves, twin trails that sometimes crossed over, or separated when a child made a mad dash at a pigeon, but always found each other again. The wind had covered their tracks almost as soon as they were made, and Maxime had paid almost no attention to any of this as it had happened, glued to his phone as per usual. 

Maxime had been firing off a couple of emails as he walked and sipped his coffee, smiling absently at dogs that raced past him, looking up occasionally to check that Brount hadn’t chewed through his lead, just before his foot and leg had suddenly gone very cold and wet and there had been a very muddy spaniel puppy stood on his shoe. 

Sighing, he’d scooped his puppy of-three-weeks up and plonked him on the nearest bench, sitting down next to him and nearly spilling his coffee over his already ruined trousers in the process. Brount had watched him with bright brown eyes. He’d managed to house train him, thank god, but the general-good-behaviour training hadn’t been going so well. Maxime had had to send back a couple of slightly-to-very chewed drafts of articles to the office, and Brount, despite his size, had somehow worked out how to open his bedroom door, jump onto the bed, and stick his cold nose in Maxime’s face almost three nights in a row now. It wasn’t all bad though. As well as a bit of company in the flat, everyone at work seemed to be much more interested in talking to him, especially after Charlotte had changed his icon on Facebook to a picture of him, Brount and a chewed teddy bear.   
Maxime had crossed his legs and resumed scrolling through his emails, one hand playing with Brount’s slightly-damp ears to try and keep him still. Camille had insisted that, while he maintained that he was a benevolent boss and would never make him write any material he didn’t want to, he had insisted that Maxime put out an advertisement for an assistant, on the grounds that Maxime couldn’t do his own filing and Camille’s self-started online politics paper was ‘blowing the fuck up’ and needed to be ‘more professional’. Maxime hadn’t exactly seen the same vision Camille had when he’d put the advertisement out, and he definitely didn’t want an awkward teenager knocking over his multiple copies of The Social Contract, but he’d agreed to at least look through the applications. His best friend and ex-schoolmate had been kind enough to land him this job several years back after the law firm he’d been working at had slowly ground to a halt, the least Maxime could do was try. 

He’d had an email asking about the job application earlier in the morning, and that morning in the park had seemed like the right time to scroll through some over-ambitious, clearly made-up drivel and sip his coffee and let Brount dry off a little bit. All the other applications he’d received had been turgid to say the least, written by people who had clearly never read any of his work, or had read one book review and were basing their experience off that- an assistant who was actually interested in his field of knowledge was probably asking too much, but it would have been nice to read something which sounded slightly less desperate than the rest of them.

He’d taken another sip of coffee, and started reading. Here goes nothing, he’d guessed. 

You who supports the tottering journalism industry against the torrent of despotism and intrigue...

It had been very purple, but it was true. He’d done some scathing stuff last month on Antoinette- the lifestyle ‘phenomenon’ brand which had been a pain in Maxime’s neck for some time- that had gotten a fair amount of publicity, and not all of it had been bad. Camille had been slightly more dramatic about it, giving a speech stood on top of a desk on how they should all be “sticking it to the man”, but he’d been pleased. 

His coffee had started to go cold, but he’d kept reading.

You whom I only know, like every politics columnist, through his articles and academic works...

Maxime had raised an eyebrow, intrigued and impressed. There’d been some blather about past jobs at cafes and a personal interest in poetry, but a couple of bits had really stuck out for him.

Support, please, will all your talent, this application for the job as your assistant... 

Maxime wasn’t the type to deliberately ignore flattery, and this certainly hadn’t gone unnoticed. This person had also read all of his books, it seemed, even Principles of Virtue which even he had to admit had been a chore just to write, and was familiar with his current work. 

I do not know you, but you are a great man...

It had been waffly, clearly written by someone who if they were half as good at writing as they thought they were would be three times better than they actually were, but it was the best application he’d had so far. 

I would love the opportunity to be your humble and obedient assistant...

Louis-Antoine Léon de Saint-Just.

“Hm.” Maxime had said out loud, pausing for a moment to extricate a newly-chewed finger from Brount’s mouth, then had promptly deleted the email. “No.”

“No.” He’d said aloud again, which had earned him a slightly strange look from a pretty couple walking past. He didn’t need an assistant. Especially one that talked so reverently about him. He was just a politics columnist. Okay, a politics columnist who’d written a couple of books on top. Okay, a politics columnist who’d written a couple of books which had previously done quite well on the sales charts, but still. He wasn’t that much of a big deal. He already had too many people poking around in his office, namely Camille. He certainly didn’t need another one. 

Brount had started to get into a strange mix of sleepy impatience, and Maximilien hadn’t exactly felt like lugging a snoring spaniel through the park back to the car. They’d made their silent, companionable way back home, back to another cup of coffee for Maxime and a much-hated bath and towel-down for Brount. Maxime had had a strange thought as he almost mechanically made himself a cup of coffee upon their arrival home. He’d almost felt like he hadn’t seen the last of this whole assistant situation.

And he’d been right.

So there he was, stood in the doorway looking like a tired, pale waxwork, while the young man sat in the chair opposite his desk stood up and smiled. 

And what a smile it was.

Despite being dressed in a somewhat professionally dull shirt and trousers, the man looked like the brightest thing that had ever been in Maxime’s office. His light brown hair almost reached his shoulders, curly in some places and wavy in others, and his shoulders were set straight, a little too stiffly and awkwardly to look natural. He had an expression of wakefulness, but Maxime knew that pale skin and heavily shadowed eyes too well to overlook a fellow workaholic who found himself writing drafts for his next articles at three in the morning most nights. Even so, the soft, pleasing tilt to the corners of his mouth and the way his dark eyes looked so directly into Maxime’s was almost arresting rather than charming. As a result Maxime was completely frozen, eyes slightly wide as he tried frantically to work out why this man was in his office. He started then thinking that, really, it didn’t matter why this man was in his office, only if whether he’d be staying for any time after this awkward moment. Probably not, he guessed. He’d probably just gotten the wrong office, and was going to excuse himself and brush past him in a state of hurried embarrassment. Or maybe he was just dropping something off for Maxime, he was holding some folders in his hand, and just as he ran a hand through his glorious hair Maxime caught the glint of something close to his head. 

There was a term for this feeling, at term he’d always liked, in abstraction, of course. Coup de foudre. That bolt of lightning you feel when you meet eyes with someone in the street, or across a bar [not that Maxime frequented many bars]. Love at first sight, if you will. That feeling of shock you got when divine providence or luck or a change in the wind pushed you into the path of that one person who would be the only one for however long eternity was. Coup de foudre. The feeling he’d always imagined in that situation was uncomfortably similar to the feeling Maxime was having now. Either that, or it was a small heart attack.

Of course it obviously wasn’t the same feeling. Normal, boring people by Maxime weren’t the concern of divine providence, or Fate, or just luck in general, that had been pretty apparent in his life so far. The nearest he’d ever come to a coup de foudre was the times he accidently electrocuted himself with his frayed phone charger. Or the times when strange young men with faces like carved marble appeared in his office for no apparent reason. 

“Hi.” There was a nice soft edge to his voice, sort of like the feeling Maximilien had on the rare occasions he didn’t fall asleep at his desk and made it to the bed, the feeling of sinking into the pillows, like the blurred edge of a white cloud—

“Good morning,” Maxime was unaware of his frown and his general impression of unease. He walked over to stand behind his desk, placing his bag on his chair, trying to feign an attitude of ease but failing when he nearly tripped over his bag strap and banged his leg against the desk. Fighting off a flush of embarrassment, he looked up, and slightly to the left of the stranger in his office. Maybe he wouldn’t freeze up again if he didn’t make eye contact. Out of the corner of his eye, the man looked expectant, as if the prolonged silence was his fault and he was waiting for him to say something.

Maxime’s confused expression deepened. “Can I help you?”

“You already have,” The man was still stood ramrod straight, too straight for it to look comfortable, and his arm was almost rigid as he extended a hand across the desk. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Maxime shook the hand offered to him, just out of reflex. The amount of book signings he’d attended had honed his handshaking technique almost to perfection, and also the amount of times he’d had to have meetings with journalistic rivals had helped him to complete the action quickly, firmly, and with a straight face. He’d hoped this would have helped him sort his head out a little bit. It just made his palms clammier. It didn’t help that the man’s hands were so warm. And soft. Like sinfully soft. What sort of person managed to keep their hands so—

“I’m really sorry,” Maxime said after a moment of contemplating whether he should just made a mad dash for the door and go and hide in the cupboard for the rest of the day. “But, um, what is it exactly that you want from me?”

The man looked slightly affronted, but he hid it with a cool smile. “I’m Antoine—your new assistant?” His question was more directed towards Maxime’s ignorance, rather than his own, very evident, sense of self-confidence.

Oh no.

“Camille.” He muttered unconsciously, ignoring the man’s- Antoine’s-impatient look. Maxime should’ve known better to think Camille would just let him have his own way about this whole assistant thing. Maybe Maxime would’ve thought nothing of it, would’ve thought it was for the best, if this assistant had been a slightly nervous teenager with a stammer and a bad suit, or a more experienced ex-secretary who hid their gossip magazines between his essays on Enlightenment principles of government, or maybe a mad axe murderer, or just anyone—except this man. He didn’t want to be rude, he didn’t want to be unfair, but Maxime was never going to be able to look straight at him, let alone work with him. It wasn’t a coup de foudre, at all. It was pure terror. 

“I’m sorry what?” He didn’t even sound impatient, or offended. He was watching him like what Maxime had said had been a command. It was too much. This was ridiculous. He was going to speak to Camille. The man seemed to always be in a meeting whenever Maxime needed him, and he’d wait outside his office door for hours, too awkward to knock or interrupt. 

“I’ll be back.” Maxime made brief eye contact with Antoine just before he left the room- his first mistake. As he turned around his shoulder smacked into the doorframe, and with a numb arm and a smarting flush of embarrassment he hurried down the corridor to the door which said C. DESMOULINS in large black letters. He could hear Camille talking inside in a low, hushed voice.

Not even bothering to knock, he just opened the door and smartly shut it behind him.

“Camille—,” he said. He sounded almost as flustered as he felt. “There’s something I need to—,”

Camille Desmoulins, his best friend, colleague and boss, held up a finger and shushed him sharply, indicating the phone pressed against his ear. Maxime crossed his arms and waited for him to finish.

“Georges are you finished already?” Camille hissed into the phone, grabbing a bunch of papers and fanning himself with them as he spoke. “Yes, I’m at work, oddly enough, and unlike some people I don’t get this lovely free time to myself when I can sit around with my hand down my—,” He caught Maxime’s impatient and now slightly horrified expression. “I won’t be a minute, Maxime, sorry.”

Maxime leaned against the doorframe and made himself comfortable.

“Yes Maxime is here—no, no he hasn’t been here the whole time—look, I need to go, I have work to do,” Camille rolled his eyes at whatever the person on the other end of the line responded with. “And no I’m not saying it—I’m not, okay Georges? You can’t honestly expect me to call you Big Da—,” He dropped the papers on his desk with a flourish and sat up properly in his swivel chair. “Okay. I’m going now. Go harass someone else for the rest of the afternoon. And you’re paying for drinks tonight.”

Camille put the phone down and sighed, rubbing his temple. He looked tired, and not even from whatever he’d just been doing over the phone with ‘Georges’. Apparently Le Vieux Cordelier had been getting some unasked-for shit from Antoinette’s lawyers [as opposed to the shit they normally asked for, and often deserved], and Camille was having to take on a whole new role involving a lot more diplomacy and late-night conference calls, and a lot less time with his boyfriend.

“I hate men.” He said after a moment of concentrated sighing and temple-rubbing. “I hate that I don’t even hate men, especially that one.”

That one manifested in the form of one Georges Danton, whose actual job remained a vague subject as far as Maxime was concerned, but whose main activity appeared to be calling Camille in the middle of the day, bored and usually horny, until Camille did something about it. Camille of course didn’t really mind in the slightest, and Maxime was thankful for Danton’s existence to a certain extent. Sure, he was a force to be reckoned with at the best of times, and made Maxime look like a skinny thirteen year old when they stood side by side, but he’d brought Camille back to life after his marriage to the then Lucille Desmoulins had fallen through almost at the same time Maxime had lost his job. Maxime had never really been certain about how much overlap there had been between these two relationships, but Maxime had been a painful third wheel every time they went out for drinks ever since. And he always had to drive them home because of how much they drank. 

Camille then properly looked at him and smiled. “Hey Max.” He said, wheeling himself to sit behind his desk again and shuffled some papers. “What can I do for you?”

“There’s a young man in my office,” A young, pretty man, with eyes shinier than your expensive paperweights, and a voice like a caramel macchiato. “Saying he’s my assistant.”

“I know.” Camille said, not looking particularly concerned with this revelation. “I knew you’d turn down any application I sent to you, so I held some interviews of my own, and thus entered Antoine into our corporation. Nice application as well, he’s got a lovely way with words. Isn’t he great?”

“In what way?” Maxime couldn’t stop himself from speaking his mind. He never could with Camille. Things just sort of spilled out when he talked to him. Like that time in Catholic school when he’d confessed to stealing Camille’s socks as all his had had holes in. Or that time in high school when he’d confessed to secretly [or not so secretly, as Camille had just laughed and said “I knew it”] having a huge crush on the male gym teacher and therefore his reason for always skipping gym class. Or like now, when he couldn’t help expressing his irritation towards the apparition of Antoine in his office. He called it irritation. It seemed to be something closer to embarrassment. 

“Um—have you met the guy?” He clearly wasn’t seeing the issue with this whole situation at all. “His resume was pretty good, he writes epic poetry, and he even likes Rousseau.” His eyes searched Maxime’s for a reaction. “Oh yeah, and he’s gorgeous. Like not even in a normal way. In a way you kind of imagine in your head, or like a Renaissance sculpture or something, but in real life. Especially that hair. He even has an earring.”

Maxime had an increasingly desperate look in his eyes. Just the description of Antoine was making him feel nervous about going back into his office. “I’m not seeing how this helps.”  
“Look, Max,” Camille stood up and put a hand on his arm. “I know how stressed you are at the moment, and Charlotte tells me how you haven’t been sleeping well recently, and I know you’ve got the puppy to worry about now, so this might be good for you. Maybe you’ll come out for drinks a bit more with us, you know. Live a little.” His smile was always so contagious, and Maxime returned it. “I thought that maybe an assistant would take a little bit of weight off your shoulders. If you really don’t want him, I’ll ask him to leave, but why not give it a try? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

It had already happened. 

It was definitely feeling more like a coup de foudre now.

“What about the weight on his shoulders?” Maxime tried to see if there was any final opportunity for him to wriggle out of this. “I have a lot of filing, not to mention all the mail and the calls that need returning. Don’t you think it’ll be too much?”

Camille chuckled and patted his arm. “It’s what he gets paid for, and besides,” He said as Maxime made to leave the room. “Those shoulders look like they could take a considerable amount of—,”

Maxime shut the door behind him before Camille could finish. 

He’d give it a week. A trial week, if you like. Hell, maybe Camille was right, maybe Antoine would be the perfect assistant. Maxime straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair as he made his way back to his office, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath before he opened the door. 

What they never tell you about the coup de foudre is that it is not necessarily reciprocated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which maybe some plot is explained and Maxime wallows in self-pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhh... idk how I really feel about this chapter, but I promise it'll pick up a bit soon and there might be a bit of Marat in the next one... maybe...  
> Tell me what you think and I KNOW its not EXACTLY accurate but I just wanted to have a bit of fun tbh  
> Enjoy :DD

“Sorry about that,” Maxime blustered as soon as he re-entered his office, forcing himself to walk slowly and calmly over to where Antoine stood. “As you will come to realise, Camille is very much his own man.”

Antoine laughed- sounding uncomfortable mostly due to his own nerves- and nodded in acknowledgement, then looked down, only just remembering the coffee in his hand. “Oh—I picked up a coffee for you on the way in—I actually have no idea if you like coffee I just—,” He needed to calm down. He stopped before he made himself look any more of an overenthusiastic imbecile. “Anyway, it’s probably cold now.”

Maxime found himself taking the coffee anyway, then drinking the bitter cold stuff as if it had been freshly made, simply out of politeness. He didn’t want Antoine to think that he was _overly_ full of himself. Suppressing a shudder, he said, “Thank you anyway, I appreciate it.” He actually did. No-one usually brought him any sort of coffee, so he either had to slope off to Starbucks himself and face the embarrassment of the barista always handing over a coffee for “Maxine”, or suffer in caffeine-deprived misery until Camille turfed him out of his office at ten-to-midnight.

Antoine bit the inside of his cheek and watched the man he was now officially working for set the coffee down with an admirable but poorly-disguised grimace. It was silent in the office. Not even the continuous wheeze of a desktop computer, or the sounds of interns arguing outside. Just silence. Antoine watched Robespierre carefully. The only thought in his head was very peculiar, yet somewhat unshakeable.

He was shorter than he’d imagined.

And less severe as well. For a man in his mid-thirties he was pretty unremarkable; a few premature grey hairs, marks of stress and sleepless nights around his eyes, and were those—?

_Freckles._

Antoine guessed with dry amusement that they photoshopped them out of all the professional shots in the inside covers of his books. Probably because they didn’t make him look very intimidating. There was something very pleasing about this discovery, and Antoine couldn’t quite put his finger on it—

“So.” Maxime had always been ushered gently away from making small talk at parties by Camille, as he often just ended up talking about politics and unintentionally starting arguments, so he had little hopes for how well this conversation was going to go. Maybe it would be nice. Maybe he would enjoy finding out a little bit more about the clearly very intelligent, and even more clearly very attractive man he had unwittingly just hired for the indeterminable future. It had to be said though, so far, he was very impressed.

“Do you live in the city?” Was his first question, fairly basic and hopefully safe.

“Yeah—I’m renting a place at the moment, I’ve been living there for a few months now, it’s not too far away.” That was a peculiar response. Surely it would make sense to secure the job before moving? But, then again, the eloquent, hyperbolic declaration he’d read that day in the park hadn’t exactly been the most generic resume he’d ever received. There was almost no ambiguity about it. It seemed that Antoine’s only intention had been to apply for _this job_ , and the fact that he’d already moved “not too far away” from the office implied that he’d thought he was going to get it. It was a considerable amount of confidence, regardless of how irresponsibly arrogant it seemed.

Maxime found arrogance in people for the most part unattractive and irritating, and he always felt annoyed when he caught himself revelling in his superiority over others. It normally involved Danton. Danton’s swaggering arrogance, the way he exuded confidence and effortlessly managed to breeze through press conferences while sexting his boyfriend annoyed Maxime beyond belief, and often made him realise how aloof he himself often appeared. Antoine was certainly intelligent and was obviously very aware of it, but this hadn’t irked him at all. If anything, it had _impressed_ him.

“Ah, I see,” Maxime sat down at his desk, and Antoine mirrored him in the chair opposite. “The rent around here is abysmal,” Maxime offered what he prayed sounded like a conversational answer, at the same time probing to understand exactly what Antoine was up to. “I imagine you were working somewhere else before you applied here?”

Antoine brushed his hair back with his hand and shook his head. “Oh, no, this was the only job I applied for after I moved here- perks of having a rich fiancée, I guess.”

Maxime sat stunned for a moment, trying desperately to work out how many e’s had been in “fiancée”. He settled on two, just to crush his hopes a little more solidly, then cleared his throat and sounded the most relaxed he’d sounded all morning. “I should probably explain my agenda—our agenda—for the next couple of weeks.”

Essentially, Maxime, Camille, and other journalists, lawyers and any self-proclaimed activist who enjoyed shouting at businessmen, had been pursuing a campaign to hold the lifestyle brand _Antoinette_ to account for certain breaches in worker’s rights, tax evasion, fraud, and what was starting to look a lot like embezzlement. They had been working alongside discontented factory workers and office staff since the beginning, but now a steady stream of fellow businessmen, ex-lawyers [including Maxime and Camille], and a failed doctor had joined in, all calling for _Antoinette_ be brought to its knees. Unfortunately, the woman the company owed its name to was not half as stupid as she seemed and twice as scary as she looked, and her contacts spread far and wide in the elite communities- not least was the fact that her husband owned most of the security companies in the country, and was adding simultaneously his endorsement of _Antoinette_ ’s products and his complete and utter disregard for Camille and his companions. They still had a long way to go, as in, they had barely achieved anything yet, but some things were starting to look promising.

“I’ve been following this since the beginning.” Antoine’s reply was immediate, confident. He evidently hadn’t noticed how Maxime had deflated after his last casual comment. Maxime almost forgot entirely about wallowing in his own rather irrational self-pity as Antoine’s eyes sharpened with intent. “The worker’s unions aren’t doing enough to encourage protests.” He said. His voice was clear, serious, utterly compelling. Maxime was pretty much prepared to agree with anything he said. “We need to work with the staff, that’s the only way we’re going to take them down.”

_Take them down_. Antoine said it like they were at war.

“We are doing our best, and we’re working with as many legal people as we can afford at the moment.” Maxime said, wanting to be fair but equally very much enjoying the expression of challenge in Antoine’s eyes. “Most importantly, we want to protect the workers. They’re the most important people in this case, and we’re here to represent them.”

“Of course,” Antoine held his gaze with Maxime until Maxime’s chest started to seize up again, and he cleared his throat and stared at his computer screen. It took a long moment for him to realise that it wasn’t even switched on. “So what do you want of me?”

Maxime sputtered for a moment and went to find the “Plan of Action” as Camille called it on his computer, when the office phone rang.

He answered, knowing full well that it was Camille.

“Antoine should be answering this.” Camille said immediately. “I’m not paying him to sit around pouting, get him answering calls and filing away all your shit. Have you had time to draft a report about Antoinette’s finances?”

“Not yet.”

“Exactly. The point of Antoine was to help you focus on the work that matters. Get him to do all the boring stuff, and maybe you’ll have time to come out for a drink with us tonight.”

Maxime sighed. “Does ‘us’ mean you and Georges?” “I invited your sister as well, and Georges is bringing our right and honourable patron Monsieur Mirabeau.” “

You asked my sister?” Antoine was sitting somewhat impatiently on the other side of the desk. Maxime noticed his finger tapping against his knee. Mirabeau had funded their project for some time, and through Camille he paid them, kept their offices cleaned and open, and promoted their articles in whichever circles he mixed in. He was one of the only wealthy businessmen that Maxime had ever liked, and even then it was somewhat strained. Maxime only had so much tolerance for a man who wasn’t ashamed to admit that he probably didn’t technically own a single brick of his multi-million dollar penthouse, and who chewed infuriatingly loudly whenever they went out for dinner.

Camille reiterated that Charlotte Robespierre was his favourite woman in the world aside from Edith Piaf, and gave him express instructions to “rip the fuck out of Antoinette and show them what we’re made of”, before hanging up. Camille had always been slightly more spirited than Maxime, and this often showed in his articles. Maxime preferred a more refined, logical, expletive-free discourse, but they seemed to work quite well.

Once he had set the phone down, he looked back up at Antoine. He seemed to almost be straining for instruction, desperate to work. From their most recent conversation it appeared to Maxime that he wasn’t going to be particularly happy about just returning calls or tidying away Maxime’s “shit”. He would do as he was told though. They needed to keep a tight ship if they wanted to be taken seriously. Whatever Antoine thought, however overwhelmingly right it sounded, it wasn’t part of their current plan. Maxime wanted to change the world, of course he did, but he’d rather do it sensibly and away from the influence of attractive geniuses clearly looking for some sort of revolution. Not that that idea didn’t sound tempting. It was just that he didn’t enjoy being shouted at by his best friend.

“I have some calls for you to return, mostly questions from other journalists, and offers of collaboration and correspondence.” He said, taking a moment to flip through some loose papers until he found the scribbled list of names and numbers. “Introduce yourself as my assistant, I’ve written a note of my desired response next to each name, and if they ask for me invent an entertaining reason for my absence.” The smile he received for that somewhat weak joke was the best thing he’d seen all day. “Oh—and when you leave this evening make sure you talk to the people downstairs about getting paid and such. The rent up here will creep up on you, trust me.”

“Thank you,” Antoine said, looking like he meant it despite the lack of fire in his eyes. He took the piece of paper, and Maxime noticed the way his eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth twitched. Evidently it was not exactly in line with Antoine’s plans to reduce _Antoinette_ to ashes. “Is this all?”

“I have several reports I need you to summarise as well, if it isn’t an issue..” _Of course it isn’t an issue, you idiot_ , Maxime thought. _It’s his job_. “I’ve got to work on this article for Camille-we’re trying to go from the financial angle rather than just the dissatisfaction of workers, just to see if that’ll give us any more press. And that’ll be all for today. I’ll walk you through how to use the shortcuts on the phone.”

The rest of the day was long, but fairly practical.

Despite the disappointment experienced on both sides they seemed to work well together. Maxime preferred to work with a little classical music in the background, and Antoine kept to himself in his newly-established corner of the office [they were perpetually short on space, and were just going to have to deal with this arrangement until they either succeeded in their mission or were fired], talking in a low voice into the phone, respectfully facing away from Maxime. Maxime had his moments where his concentration slipped, and he spent minutes watching Antoine carefully over the top of his computer, watching the way he methodically ticked off each name on the sheet Maxime had given him, occasionally turning round to ask Maxime to decipher his scrawl for him. Antoine made Maxime stutter and sweat after he disappeared from the office and returned with a coffee and an orange, with the excuse that the secretary had told him he liked them, and the calls Maxime would usually return in a week were returned in the space of a couple of hours. Antoine’s efficiency had been ruthless all day, and he seemed impatient, seemed to be pushing for more and more work, even on his first day.

All of these seemed odd, especially for Maximilien. It seemed strange that someone would admire him so much, would follow his work and this case so avidly that they would rent an expensive apartment with someone else’s money and talk about overthrowing the company just to get a job as a lowly assistant. Maxime saw Antoine’s ambition more clearly than he often saw his own. He had the feeling that, at some point, it was going to manifest itself in a form other than just efficient phone calls.

After they finished up, and Antoine muttered a hasty goodbye, laughing with the excuse that now he himself had to some calls, and Maxime went out with Camille, as promised. He spent most of the evening drumming his fingers on the table, staring at his glass of water, frowning much harder than normal. If Maxime had been someone like Danton he would have flirted anyway [or whatever horrible painful conversation Maxime counted as flirting], would have complimented Antoine anyway, would have asked him out for drinks, and pray that one day it would pay off. Luckily for him and for Antoine as well, he wasn’t Danton, and he didn’t aspire to be him. He would keep this to himself, and he would do nothing about it. There was nothing to be done, anyway, and he took the sight of the smiling, brown-haired woman who appeared when Antoine’s phone screen flashed from his hand as he checked the time as divine confirmation of his future. This was it, he supposed. Antoine’s brilliance regardless, he couldn’t have been more disappointed. He hated himself for his selfishness, but it was true. _Coup de foudre_. What a stupid waste of effort.


	3. A Long Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxime's usual evening drink with the journal's patron, the comte de Mirabeau, goes slightly pear-shaped when an unexpected guest arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me if you like this one, I promise it'll pick up a bit next chapter!!

As promised, Maxime did find that he had a slightly less heavy workload in the evening, and so was idling about in his flat, waiting to be picked up by Georges and Camille. Camille insisted they all travelled together for the sake of professionalism, claiming it was “untidy” and “disorganised” if they all appeared at the hotel in different numbers at different times. Their patron, one Honore Mirabeau, probably wouldn’t have cared if they turned up to his drinking place of choice half-dressed and already drunk [as Georges normally was about five minutes before their agreed meeting time], but Camille was adamant it made a good impression. Maxime refused to argue, anyhow, and Camille’s smooth black estate had a slightly better effect that Maxime’s dun-coloured Fiat.

He’d taken Brount on a brisk walk before getting ready to go out, and now the spaniel was flopped against his leg on the sofa, panting and smiling in the way only dogs could. He kept promising to take him to training sessions as he could be a little mischievous sometimes [he’d eaten one of Charlotte’s scarves once, and she still hadn’t forgiven either of them for that], but that hadn’t happened yet.

He was beginning to get a little impatient- Camille was notoriously late for everything, including meetings he was meant to be chairing, and Maxime found himself a little more stressed than usual. He seemed agitated, irritable, and he couldn’t help connecting this uncomfortable feeling to the existence of his new assistant. He’d been strangely aggrieved to learn that Antoine was already engaged, despite the countless other reasons why Maxime was going to have to dash his hopes himself instead of waiting for Antoine to do it. His age, his appearance, the fact that they’d barely known each other in person for 24 hours, the list went on. Maxime was not one to usually be miserable about such things, but then he’d never experienced this sort of feeling before. This stupid _coup de foudre_. He was beginning to despise the term more and more.

There was the click of the bathroom lock from down the hall, and Charlotte Robespierre padded into the living room, thoughtfully tousling her hair. Brount raised his head and thumped his tail against the sofa, but the look he got from her told him she wasn’t in the mood for playing. Charlotte was becoming increasingly more responsible for the puppy on account of Maxime’s long hours and his habit of sleeping in the office instead of his actual flat, and he was in the puppy phase of chewing everything he laid eyes on, for example the aforementioned scarf. While not explicitly a part of the take-down-Antoinette operation, Charlotte enjoyed the men’s company as well as a drink or two, and often when the conversation got rowdier as the night went on she was Maxime’s main source of companionable chatter. Two years his junior, Charlotte shared his face shape and green eyes, but was slightly more spirited than he was, more at ease in a crowd, more interested in women. They spent a lot of time discussing their loose cannon of a brother, Maxime’s looser cannon of a boss, and Charlotte often fussed over him like their ages were swapped. This evening was no exception.

“You haven’t told me much about your new assistant,” Charlotte was good as asking for information in a very roundabout fashion. Maxime had blurted out things he’d never meant to say on too many occasions. “Is he one of your interns?”

“No,” Maxime replied absently, staring at his knees and stroking Brount’s ears. “He was an external applicant. Camille picked him. He really seemed like he wanted the job.”

“Hmh,” Charlotte sat down next to him, bending down to lace her boots. “Can’t imagine anyone particularly exciting would want to be your assistant.”

Brount seemed to notice his agitation, and began licking his fingers. “He’s—,” Maxime began, then didn’t know how to finish. Ridiculously beautiful? Unfairly intelligent? Hopelessly unattainable? “He’s nice.”

Charlotte didn’t need to know the full details. Keeping her in the dark was the best way to keep this as quiet as possible.

“What’s his name then, at least?”

“Antoine.” Maxime said in what he hoped was a casual fashion. “de Saint-Just.”

“Nice.” Charlotte pulled out her phone, tapping nonchalantly at it, and Maxime took a moment to calm himself down a little. He couldn’t deny that he enjoyed being dramatic, and that really this was probably not as much of a problem as he was making it out to be, but it was still playing on his mind. He’d known Camille since he was five. Danton came as an add-on to Camille’s friendship, and even then they didn’t really speak. Charlotte and Augustin were related to him, so they didn’t count. Maxime couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a new friend, let alone anything else. Maybe he had reason to be dramatic.

They both lapsed into silence, into that comfortable silence that often exists between close friends or siblings, Maxime just thinking, Charlotte just tapping. Brount kept licking his fingers.

All was well until Charlotte swore quietly under her breath.

“What is it?” Maxime muttered, but even as he was asking the question Charlotte was turning her phone screen round to him, and he saw wavy brown hair, an endearing smile, and beautiful dark eyes.

“Charlotte.” Maxime sighed, turning away to glare at his knees again. “He’s already engaged.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you marry him _straight_ away,” Charlotte said with a small twist of her mouth. “But Max I’m not even straight and I can see that he’s gorgeous.” She scrolled pensively for a moment. “Max, I’ve never seen a guy this good-looking write about enjoying _Das Kapital_. Besides you, of course. I’m guessing you invited him along tonight?” Her eyes became inquisitive, her expression more expectant.

Maxime didn’t lift his eyes as he shrugged and said, rather coldly, “I didn’t think to ask him. I wanted to stay professional, considering we haven’t known each other for much more than a day.”

Charlotte looked at him like she was going to say something about his pitiful expression, or his dramatic sighs, or even just the plain fact it looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, but the doorbell rang and Brount leapt up in a frenzy of excitable barking.

Maxime found his face strangely red as he straightened his shirt cuffs and went to answer the door to a smiling Camille and a haughty-looking Georges, both dressed in creased but smart clothes. They piled into the car, Camille driving even though they all knew Maxime was probably going to be driving him home sleepy and smelling of alcohol.

“Do you think my tights look weird with this skirt?” Charlotte mused from the seat next to Maxime, in an attempt to strike up a conversation.

Maxime, who had little knowledge of neither skirts nor the appropriate tights to wear with them, told her that they looked fine, then proceeded to stare absently out of the window with his arms folded. Camille and Georges were singing along to something on the radio, and Charlotte soon joined in. While they were very similar, his little sister was better at reading and fitting in with other people, preferring to involve herself and watch people at the same time. Maxime preferred to quietly observe the proceedings until he thought of something worth saying, or when Camille asked him a work-related question. He’d stopped thinking about the day’s events now. He was calmer, less melodramatic. He thought absently about the socks he’d left to out to dry at home, and wondered vaguely if Brount would find them and chew them again as he often did.

They pulled up to their designated meeting point, a large white, pillared hotel with intimidating fountains and French-speaking waiters. There were a few people milling around in the foyer, and Maxime, Georges and Charlotte joined them while Camille went to park the car. Maxime was just settling himself down in one of the leather armchairs under the glow of the large chandelier hanging over the front desk, watching people checking in or walking about with drinks, when a very recognisable figure emerged from the bar and clapped Danton on the back.

The comte de Mirabeau, or Honoré as he insisted they call him, red-faced and smiling with a slim glass of something sparkly in his hand, welcomed them all with his usual warmth and energy. He was the only extravagantly wealthy man Maxime would ever have risen from his seat to greet, and he managed a smile as they shook hands.

“Maxime my friend, tired and overworked as ever,” Mirabeau let go of his hand to clasp him on the shoulder with only the slightest drunken wobble. Evidently he’d been drinking long before they’d arrived. “Where is Camille?”

Camille was the ‘favourite child’ as far as Mirabeau’s patronage was concerned. Maxime was too resigned, Charlotte too difficult to connect with in the fact that he couldn’t speak to women who weren’t attracted to him, and Georges too much like himself. Mirabeau liked his passion, his energy, and for this poured great sums of money into his journal.

Camille appeared, as if on cue, and made a show of embracing Mirabeau and kissing his cheeks, gushing about some extra amount of money Mirabeau had kindly siphoned off from somewhere slightly less than legal and allowed him to hire more staff. Maxime wasn’t a particularly big fan of Mirabeau in terms of his morals, but he was a kind man. He wanted to do the right thing, even if it mean racking up millions in debt and defrauding a few people along the way.

“I swear that chandelier’s getting lower,” Mirabeau said after they’d said all their hellos, and Charlotte had discreetly slipped away to buy herself a drink and flirt with the bartender. “And it always looks lopsided.”

“Maybe you’re the one that’s lopsided,” Camille said, and inspected the glass he’d pinched from Mirabeau. “What are you drinking, anyway?”

Mirabeau shrugged carelessly. “No idea. It looked expensive. Tastes a bit like vomit though.” He looked over his shoulder, back towards the bar. “I sent him off to get me a brandy some time ago, but he hasn’t come back.” He said, slightly under his breath.

Camille didn’t seem to notice, as Georges was muttering something into his ear, but Maxime thought he’d break the mould and strike up a conversation. Maybe Mirabeau had a new assistant, too. He sympathised with whatever poor soul had been sent to the bar for Mirabeau’s drink, probably under instructions to find the most expensive drink on offer, as that had been his job for the first year of their relationship.  That year was forever tainted with the memories of Maxime stammering to the bartender that he wanted their finest cognac, then almost dropping it on the way back. He shuddered self-consciously.

Maxime was about to ask Mirabeau who his new drinks-bearer was, but he looked over the comte’s shoulder as the doors to the bar swung open, and suddenly found himself entirely incapable of speech.

Dressed smartly in a tight-fitting shirt and black shoes that gleamed in the light of the chandelier, holding a glass of something butterscotch-coloured and walking with the smooth, relaxed gait of someone painfully aware of the effect they had on people, _Maxime’s_ assistant swanned over to them and handed Mirabeau the glass.

“They ran out of ice.” Antoine said curtly, tousling his hair absently as he met Maxime’s gaze. His lips twitched upward in an awkward smile, and Maxime looked away, his face burning.

“Don’t look so put out, Maxime, I haven’t stolen him,” Mirabeau laughed, causing the colour in Maxime’s cheeks to become more prominent. “Camille invited him, and as my new friend informs me he has a habit of being early to everything.”

Antoine looked different. Despite the way he had walked, the ease in which he’d carried that drink, he sounded stiffer, more formal. It wasn’t as if he’d been particularly warm to Maxime earlier that day, but the light in his eyes was no longer there. He seemed almost _icy_ , and when he smiled it looked uncomfortable. It looked nowhere near as uncomfortable as Maxime felt though, and he tried to catch Camille’s eye in the hope that he’d explain himself a little further. Luckily, Camille caught on and, leaning against Georges’ shoulder, took a sip from Mirabeau’s allegedly vomit-tasting drink.

“I thought I’d invite Antoine along, just so he can see where the real power lies.” Mirabeau smiled self-indulgently. “Forming a good relationship with this old fart is the best way of getting anywhere in our current situation.”

“He seems to know an awful lot about our lawsuit,” Mirabeau chuckled. “More than I do most of the time.”

“I look forward to working more closely with you all,” Antoine smiled again. His eyes glanced over Maxime’s face, but Maxime was not watching. “It really is an honour to be here at all.”

“You’ll realise at some point that it really isn’t that great,” Georges said, an arm snaking around Camille’s waist. “And it’s more like a million endless piles of paperwork, and dead-end lawsuits and annoying journalists.” Camille raised his head in protest of his last comment, and Georges pecked him on the cheek. “Not you, of course. Oh—,” He directed his somewhat smug gaze towards Antoine. “I don’t think I caught your name?”

“Antoine.” Antoine said, offering his hand. There was a pause in which it just hung there, empty and expectant, before Georges leaned forward to shake it. Maxime saw the way his massive knuckles tensed. Antoine’s eyebrow twitched as a muscle worked in his jaw. Evidently, they had learned enough of each other prior to their first meeting to understand that they had very little in common. Everyone knew Georges Jacques Danton lacked principle, and, a lot of the time, any sort of direction at all, and Antoine seemed more set on a certain course in particular. Mirabeau looked considerably amused by this clash of wills.  

“Good.” He said. “Now we have all been acquainted, I suggest we sit down and discuss our plans for the future in a little more depth.”

They all headed to the bar, lingering for a while over drinks and idle chatter about women and the news and ridiculous economy, before the conversation became more serious.

“Who’s this Jean-Paul man?” Camille pushed unruly curls out of his eyes as he stared at the now crumpled page of notes Maxime had handed him.

“He called a few weeks ago,” Antoine said before Maxime had even had a chance to open his mouth. “I spoke to him today, and he wants to arrange a meeting with yourself and Monsieur Robespierre,”

“Maxime, please.” Maxime said, so quietly he doubted even Charlotte, sitting by his side, could have heard him.

Camille raised his eyebrows in an impressed fashion. Georges just smirked behind his fingers. Antoine maybe have been cold and overly formal, but he was certainly eager to impress.

“He has a journal, I think, called _The People’s Friend_ or something,” Antoine continued. “From what I gathered before he started shouting his intention was to work in partnership with us.”

“ _Us.”_ Georges muttered amusedly.

Camille snorted into his drink. “What sort of a name is _The People’s Friend_ , anyway? Arrange a meeting if you want, we need all the help we can get at the moment.”

Antoine remained respectfully quiet for the rest of the evening, watching Mirabeau speak with an indecipherable but stern expression on his face. It made him look a lot older, Maxime thought. A lot more formal. Maxime noticed he had a habit of biting the inside of his lip as he eyes darted from person to person, but his eyes were so unreadable that Maxime had no idea whether this was out of nerves, or concentration, or anything in particular. Charlotte reappeared after spending an hour or so talking to a tall blonde woman at the bar, immediately noticing Maxime’s unease and striking up a conversation with him about music, and the evening gradually progressed to the point where Camille was yawning against Georges’ arm, and Mirabeau was telling rambling, lewd stories about his time at law school. Maxime let his eyes flick to Antoine every so often, watched the way his eyes moved, the way he thought through every reply before he spoke, that painful awkward glance they sometimes exchanged when Maxime stared a little too long or too hard.

“Where _is_ he?” Camille grumbled for the fourth time after they’d left the hotel, and were waiting outside for Georges and Charlotte to retrieve the car from wherever it had been parked by the hotel staff. He pulled his felt coat tighter around himself and looked at Maxime, loose curls blowing in the brisk wind. “Enjoy yourself tonight?”

“No more than usual.” Maxime said blandly, numb hands stuffed in his pockets. He hated this time of night in this time of year. It was too cold for his sensitive disposition.

“Honoré said he was going to try and get us into that big press conference next month,” Camille said. “If he pulls it off—,” His face broke into an excited smile. His eyes glittered in the way only Camille’s could. “We could have a serious platform to voice our grievances.”

“ _If,_ ” Maxime replied. “Monsieur Mirabeau spends more time drinking away his money than he does putting it into schemes that might actually make a difference.

“Awh, come on Maxime,” Camille bumped him with his shoulder good-naturedly. “What’s gotten into you? You really didn’t look like you were having a good time tonight. Are you sleeping okay?”

Maxime felt his cheeks flush at the sudden interrogation. “I’m sleeping fine.” He said. “It’s just been a long day.”

“It has.” Camille agreed. “And now I’ve got to go home and try to teach Georges how to do the ironing. I had to throw away my best Gautier shirt because of the bloody great _burn mark_ in the middle of it. Also—how bad at ironing do you have to be to _melt buttons_?”

That elicited a small smile from Maxime, and Camille returned it just as the black estate swung round the corner. Maxime looked around absently to see where Antoine was, having been informed that he was taking a taxi back to his flat. He was talking quietly on the phone, but not quietly enough to stop the wind from carrying his words.

“Come on then, old man,” Camille nudged him again. “We’ve got an even longer day tomorrow.”

But Maxime wasn’t listening. His mind was stuck on the words that would be swimming around and around in his head for the remainder of that evening, the words Antoine had spoken softly and self-consciously as they had waited outside for the cars.

“It’s been a long day, Thérèse. Longer than I expected. I’ll call you before work tomorrow—keep that ring safe—I love you too.”  

 


End file.
